ROOTS

When you are in a group one question that generally arises is, which state do you belong to? Are you a Gujrati or a Marathi or a Upite? This is one question I dread answering. I am sweating now. I am a Punjabi. Oh! A Punjabi, so cool. So which place actually in Punjab? Actually I have been to Punjab just once and even then I was very small. I am basically a Delhi waala Punjabi. Oh! So basically you are a refugee, right? God please call me to you. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp. Yes, I am. Oh! the surprised gasp, Oh! the pity. It is much easier to swim in shark infested waters, by brain is screaming. My pulse has increased to 100. I am blankly nodding and smiling. I am staring at floor and biting my nail. I am searching for ……..umm…..let’s call it my ROOTS.
So now start with the story, finally! Yes my grandparents have come from Pakistan. My appaji used to tell me stories about his childhood in Pakistan, how he came after partition, how he studied hard and ultimately topped in his engineering college. I used to treasure these stories as a legacy passed onto me by my beloved Appaji. For me pakistan was a house or rather a group of houses where my grandparents lived and a ground where they all played. It was a symbol of their childhood. In short it was a place where my ROOTS were.
As I grew I realized and learned from my contemporaries that Pakistan is not a place to love. You can hate it, sympathize with it, dispassionately analyze it and abuse it when you are playing a cricket match against it. But loving……it was out of question. With time I too got detached with Pakistan. And in my effort to separate myself from Pakistan, I lost my grandparent’s childhoods; I lost their laughter and cries, those stories no more held much importance. Pakistan became a country as shown in J.P.Dutta’s movies.
I eventually lost my ROOTS
People inquire me about my native place, my state. I feel as I have been caught off guard. Someone has taken my ability to talk and has forced me into a debate. Thousands of ants are gnawing me from within. I feel numb. It is almost as if you have been proud of something throughout your life and you realize that it is a farce. I feel as if some has cut my ROOTS.
It is not as if I don’t love my country. I am an Indian and proud to be one. India has given me an identity, India has given me my rights and along that responsibilities. It has completed me as a person. But it failed to provide me with a native place. It has not given me the assurance that after 60 years and 3 generations of living here, I won’t be called a refugee. In short it has failed to provide me with….how to put it…….ROOTS.